


What Do Angels Eat?

by MushroomDoggo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:47:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4048513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MushroomDoggo/pseuds/MushroomDoggo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1983, when little Dean Winchester was just four years old, a fire destroyed his home and killed his mother. Twenty-two years later, his father went missing and he went to his brother for help. Lots of things happened in between, but for now that's all you need to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Once upon a time there was a teenage boy who had a lot of trouble getting a date because he was probably gay. He was a pretty cool guy if you could just get to know him, but he tended to do things that turned people off of spending any time with him. First of all, he kept a sketchbook with him at all times in which he drew horrid doodles of cartoon characters while covering it to the best of his ability. Secondly, he hated to lose, and therefore never let go of an argument once it had started and tended to blame outside sources when he lost. Third, he was obnoxiously in-your-face about being him. He got easily excited over things other kids just didn't care about. Lastly, he was a writer.

Now, this boy liked to write about things that confused other kids his age. He wrote about social, political and religious issues. He wrote about the future of the world or the very distant past. He wrote about things he liked. He wrote to please himself.

Anyone who knows anything about writing has heard Kurt Vonnegut's advice: "Only write to please yourself. If you open your window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will catch pneumonia."

This boy had never heard this advice. He just really didn't give a fuck what other people thought of his writing.

It's me, by the way. The boy is me. Wasn't sure if you'd get that by yourselves. Seriously, though, I couldn't care less what other kids think of me. I've got little brother, too, and he's pretty great, but the stuff I do tends to be solitary. There really isn't space for someone else's arm to guide yours as you draw, or another finger on the keyboard as you type. That's just the way it is. 

"Why are we talking about this?" You're surely asking. "There's obviously some kind of twist. Yeah. Your character seems well-rounded and interesting, but I didn't pick this story because I thought it would be boring. Clearly, something more interesting is going to happen to you, judging by the book's title alone. So skip the mushy crap and get to the part with the magic!"

To that I say "Yeah. You're totally right. This is a pretty bad misstep on my part. Rule one of starting a novel is "don't use 'once upon a time,'" and rule two is "never bury your readers in info about a character they don't care about." You don't know my name, you don't know how old I am exactly or where I live or even in what time period, although I would hope you could pick up some hints by the way I say 'keyboard' instead of 'typewriter' or 'stone on cave wall.'

"But the readers, as I have recently learned, actually do care about what you do. You're not free to do whatever you want, because if you write about a teenage boy living in 2015 who likes to write and draw even if he isn't very good and is great at arguing even if he never really wins and who is super gay even if he never had a crush on a boy and who has some kind of curse on him and an angel sleeping in his attic... Well, how many people can actually relate to that? To be fair, how many people can really relate to a man who falls madly in love with an exotic princess' feet after trying to write a book about the dwarf son of the man who blew up Hiroshima? 

"But enough about Cat's Cradle. Even if it is one of my favorite books. The point is, if I start by telling you everything that makes me me, every person on Earth who isn't me is going to put this book down, close the tab it's in, pause the movie it's been turned into, and try to erase it from their minds because it was just too specific. So let me try to start again. While I think, take the time to forget about this terrible experience. If you made it this far, you're probably one of the six other people on this planet who is exactly like me, so I'm sure you'll understand that I need to take the time to get this first sentence perfect."

Prologues are really hard. Starting a book is like starting a journey. It's the hardest part, but it's the most crucial. You never just wake up one morning to find you've started one. A book, I mean. Or a journey, for that matter. And you never seem to... Eh...

That was a bad one. Let me try again.

In 1983, when little Dean Winchester was just four years old, a fire destroyed his home and killed his mother. Twenty-two years later, his father went missing and he went to his brother for help. Lots of things happened in between, but for now that's all you need to know.

Yeah.

Okay. 

Chapter one.


	2. In 1983, There was a Fire...

"In 1983, when little Dean Winchester was just four years old, a fire destroyed his home and killed his mother. Twenty-two years later, his father went missing and he went to his brother for help. Lots of things happened in between, but for now that's all you need to know."

The little blue line blinked at the start of the next paragraph, but I didn't know what to say. I felt kind of silly using my own name. 

Four quick clicks came from next door and Ash's 'band' gave their song another try. I think it had been Fall Out Boy at some point, but now it just sounded like Jimi Hendrix falling down a flight of stairs. 

I fumbled for my headphones and descended into a world of random pop songs and annoying DJs playing really weird pranks on people. The radio was awesome about two percent of the time, but it was free, so it was how I listened to music. Public domain sucked, and YouTube seemed to hate me, for some reason, so this was really my only option.

Taylor Swift songs really weren't the appropriate background for a slightly depressing horror story, though. 

I gave up on radio and closed the tab. Without the background noise I could hear, very clearly, Ash screaming at the rest of his band. 

"We are not calling ourselves the 'Ghostfacers'! That's literally the dumbest name ever!" he yelled. 

"Well, 'Party in the Back' isn't any better, brah," pointed out hipster doofus Ed Zeddmore. Why did guys like to call each other bras, anyway?

"Yeah! 'Ghostfacers' is way cooler, and we have a theme song that way! One, two, three, four!" Harry Spengler counted off with accompanying drumstick clicks.

I was thankfully able to start up some background noise before they howled their theme song. A long recording of rain pittered in my ears and only the sloppy baseline could be heard over it. I finally had peace to write.

And by 'write,' of course, I mean 'stare blankly at the little blue cursor and rethink my entire life, then get distracted by a random social media site or video of an SNL skit.'

After an hour of this, Sam tapped me on the shoulder.

I ripped off my headphones and spun my chair to face him. "Sam! My God! You gotta stop doing that!"

Sam’s finger curled away from me and his shoulders inched towards his ears. “Sorry.”

“What are you even doing in my room? I told you not to come in here!” I demanded.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he mumbled, "so I brought you some Funyuns..."

Huge, shining eyes stared at me in apology as Sam produced the small green bag for me. I sighed deeply and took it from him.

"Thanks," I said as nicely as I could. Sam was one of those kids who meant well, but he seemed to be blissfully unaware of any damage he ever caused. This included standing in people's way without realizing, spilling drinks without noticing or cleaning up, and even being unsure whether or not he was hungry until he smelled food. A weird kid, but sweet in his own way.

Sam stood awkwardly there as I opened the bag and ate a chip. Or whatever these things were.

Maybe he needed more praise. "Yum," I said as enthusiastically as I could. It still came out forced, but maybe it would do.

Sam kept staring. He seemed to be looking over my shoulder.

All at once I realized that he had invited himself in to read what I had been writing. I scrambled to cover the screen. "Hey! Watch it, or I'll write you in and kill you off!"

Sam tried to peek around my arm.

"Are you serious?! Can I have any privacy at all?" I slammed the laptop shut.

Sam stopped trying to stretch around my block. "Hey, Dean? Any chance you, uh... any chance you wrote about angels?"

I narrowed my eyes. It's true, I had plans to write about angels in the future, but that was just in the outline.

"Uh..." I just stared at Sam for a while. One thumb seemed to be polishing his other fingernails shakily.

"I mean... Well..." I swallowed. "Have you been snooping on my drive? Did you crack my password?"

Sam's face lit up. "You are! You're writing about Angels! Can I read?"

"Not til it's a best seller, bitch.” I attempted to shoo him, but he wouldn’t move until I actually laid a hand over his face and steered him out of eyeshot of the computer.

Just as Sam had finally given up and was about to leave, the front door gave its characteristic creak open and slam shut. Jingling keys could be heard over the racket of stomping boots and the shedding of a winter coat. “Hun? Boys? Hello?”

Sam froze, then turned to me with a grin. “Dad’s home early! We can watch the game!”

Even Sam’s pure elation couldn’t change my opinion of our father. He preferred Sam, since Sam wasn’t blind as a bat and a total loner and a general disappointment. I certainly didn’t have a problem with him, but his problem with me halted any sort of growth in our relationship. Plus, our dad was abnormally sensitive to things like sex and violence in the movies we watched, so his once-a-month ‘marine duty’ weekends were a godsend. Finally, mature-rated games and R-rated movies abound! Our mom was even good-hearted enough to help us hide the evidence of our ‘age-inappropriate’ escapades. Please. Like we didn’t hear and see that stuff every day at school. I think our dad was one of those ‘turn a blind eye people.’ He wasn’t that old, he totally remembered high school, he just liked to tell himself that a lot had changed since then and that his impressionable son who couldn’t see two feet in front of his face without glasses didn’t see girl’s boobs hanging out of their halter tops every single instant.

I followed Sam out slowly into the living room. He leapt into dad’s arms.

“Ha ha! There’s my boy!” Dad adjusted his uniform hat as Sam kept two arms around his neck. He grinned and rubbed his back affectionately.

Sam let go, falling about an inch to the carpeted floor. “Hey! You ready to watch the game, dad?”

Dad ruffled his favorite’s hair. “Hang on there, Sammy. I haven’t found your mother yet. Do you know where she is?”

“She went out for ice cream. We ran out.”

“A genuine emergency, I see,” dad laughed.

He dropped his bag with a thud and looked to me. “Dean.”

“Hey, dad,” I muttered. I scratched the back of my head, looking for something to do and a way to avoid his gage.

“How did you do on that, uh…” dad struggled to remember what I had told him.

“Math test?” I prompted. “Fine.”

Dad nodded. He walked past me to get to the stairs and began the loud climb to pajamas. He gave me a half-hearted clap on the shoulder as he passed, but that seemed to be all he could muster.

All in all, a pretty good interaction with him. He seemed to be happy overall, and no one had been left physically or emotionally hurt in the process. 

Sam looked to me. “You think the Eagles are gonna win?” he asked. He literally had not noticed the issue dad and I had just had.

"Sam, how did you know I was writing about angels?" I asked, deadly serious. "If I don't get an explanation, I will literally shove a lamp up your nose."

My little brother tried not to chuckle. "Well... The same way I know that his name's Castiel, and that he wears a trench coat, and--"

I grabbed his shoulder and gave him a little shake. "And how is that? How do you know all that stuff?"

Sam chewed on his lip nervously.

The character I had created was just as he'd described. His name was Castiel (a direct corruption of Cassiel, and actual angel mentioned in the bible), and he was possessing a man named Jimmy Novak. Like a ghost, but nice. He was very confused about the way humans worked, and tended to do or say silly things in an attempt to appear human. Because he was such an odd character, he was the only one I couldn't base off of an actual person. I mean, everyone else in the tale had been ripped from my reality, aged up a few years, and given some kind of weapon and horrible backstory. If Sam had guessed anyone else, from our Uncle Bobby to our old dog, Bones, I wouldn't have been as angry as I was. But Castiel was literally the only original character I had created for this story, probably ever. 

"I'll show you," he whispered.

I narrowed my eyes. "Huh?"

"I'll show you, but we have to wait for Dad to leave," Sam explained reluctantly. He tried to crack a knuckle, but no sound came out. "It's gotta be a secret, okay?"

The other thing about Sam-- he was actually a piece of cellophane. It was literally that easy to see through his lies. He did the whole twitchy defensive thing, had about twelve or so tells, the works. I'm not trying to say that it's a bad thing, because it isn't. Being incapable of lying is actually a great quality. Sincere, honest people are inherently good. 

Sam was telling the truth.

I nodded very slowly. "Okay."

Chasing Dad out of the house was relatively easy. He had a local hangout, one with a bunch of other grumpy veterans who drank beer and argued about sports. All we had to do was click on the TV to a 'bad' show and hide the remote. Since dad was too lazy to look for things, he would take the simpler option to avoid embarrassment: run away to his pals who worked the Veterans of Foreign War bar. Only a few short blocks away, the VFW was a safe haven where he could curse like a sailor and complain about me all he wanted with no repercussions.

We did have to survive the football game, but afterwards he was as good as gone.

"I'm heading down the street," he finally informed us, loudly, over the sound of an inappropriate sitcom. "See you later, boys."

Mom made a small appearance, poking her head through the kitchen doorway to peer at us I the den. "You need a ride down there?"

That was code for 'I know you'll be drinking so you can't drive yourself. Just reminding you.'

Dad waved off the offer. "I'll walk down. It's nice out."

"Bye, Dad!" Sam waved. I gave a little wave, too, but he didn't seem to notice.

With that, he was gone. Mom sent us a playful glare.

"Too much Dad time, huh?" She asked.

I shrugged. "2-plus hours is a little much."

Mom chuckled. "Don't pull that too often, he'll know something's up eventually."

We watched Mom disappear back into the kitchen, craning our necks to be sure she went back to the dishwasher.

Sam tapped the back of my hand and pointed to the stairs. I nodded, following him softly up the carpeted steps and into the cluttered upper level. It had never been used for much more than storage and a place for messy activities, like play-doh and science fair volcanoes. Sam led me to the back of the room and slid aside the piece of plywood guarding the attic space.

He had only moved it an inch when he turned back to me. "Swear not to tell?"

I scoffed. "Yeah. Now open it already! I've gotta see where you're getting your magic powers or whatever..."

Sam gave me one last worried glance and moved the wood away completely. He shushed into the darkness, then tugged on the cord over his head. A bare bulb illuminated a grown man standing in the corner of the room. Trenchcoat, blue tie, explosive black hair...

"Dean? What happened to you? Why are you so..." He tilted his head like a confused bird. "Something bad happened, didn't it?"


End file.
